


Running to Stand Still

by Vae



Category: Leverage
Genre: Community: leveragexchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-01
Updated: 2009-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:11:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>However far Eliot runs, he ends up back with Nate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running to Stand Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocketpool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/gifts).



> Leverage is the property of TNT, Chris Downey and Dean Devlin. I make no profit from this piece of fiction.
> 
> Written for the [](http://leveragexchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**leveragexchange**](http://leveragexchange.livejournal.com/) 2009\. Thanks to [](http://lvs2read.livejournal.com/profile)[**lvs2read**](http://lvs2read.livejournal.com/) and [](http://dea-liberty.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dea-liberty.livejournal.com/)**dea_liberty** for beta services.

Wasn't the end. Might've looked like it, screwed over by Sterling six ways to Sunday, separate ways, but hell, Eliot had worked alone before, he'd do it again. Sure, he didn't _need_ to – had enough stashed away just from that first job to buy that Caribbean island and retire to luxury, but that wasn't the point.

Point was, _nobody_ told Eliot Spencer when it was time to retire.

Just because he'd walked away from that team, didn't mean he was ready to quit.

***

_Leave it after the beep. Make the money good enough and I'll call back._

"Oh, man, you know, really should think about changing that number. If I've got it, and let me tell you, you're not exactly hiding it, not even a challenge, not even trying, didn't break a sweat, one hand behind my back blindfold pinging on WoW, dude, bet your ass Sterling's tracked it down. Remember that shit I told you about GPS? And I ain't the only one looking for you. Look to it."

***

Eliot changed his number. Blanked his email address. Moved towns. Moved continents.

If the right person was looking, none of it would make a blind bit of difference. Might hold Sterling's hounds off a few more weeks, though.

***

_Leave it after the beep. Make the job interesting enough, I'll call back._

"Okay, so, there are _people_ in my way, Eliot. People between me and my _money_. Make them move!"

***

The message he left on Parker's voicemail was short, to the point, and graphically obscene.

The number got changed again. He skipped out of South America.

Russia always had work.

***

_Leave it after the beep. Maybe I'll call._

"What the _hell_ are you doing in St. Petersburg? This is _my_ job, I've been working on this guy for _weeks_. Don't you _dare_ screw this one up for me, or I'll make you wish that your mother lived her entire life in a convent. Get _out_ before Sterling notices you and finds _me_."

***

Another number change, though Eliot was beginning to wonder what the damn point was if Hardison just kept on tracking him down and giving every number out to everyone he'd ever worked with.

Another continent change. Across land, through the Eastern bloc and keeping his head well down. Profile low. He traded the phone in Georgia for a set of wheels, picked up a new phone in Turkey, slipped up on a job in Greece.

Too fucking used to working with a team, and his instincts had rusted. It was past time to get used to watching his own back again, without that voice whispering in his ear, telling him when to look out, what to do, where to go. Hadn't gotten cornered, but it had been a damn near thing, and all he had to show for it was a new scar, and another arrest warrant.

He picked up a tail in Belgium when Interpol finally found someone who could do their job, or start to. He'd turned the tables on the girl in Holland, fucked her into dropping the trail, and moved on again. Getting too damn close to Iceland for his liking, and Svetlana could disappear better than he could. Nothing like ex-Interpol to know the tricks of that one.

***

London hadn't changed. Global recession his ass; the people with the money still had the money, and that meant they still wanted to hire Eliot Spencer. How it looked, anyway. The first couple of jobs went down real smooth.

Third one was a set up.

***

His left eye had swelled completely closed by the time he got back to his rooms, and the right was well on the way to joining it. His right ankle dragged behind him, and his left arm cradled his ribs protectively. Walking was slow and tough going, mostly because he really didn't want to put any weight on his foot because man, that hurt like a bitch, hot pain blazing sharp up to his hip each time he tried. Somehow, it wasn't a surprise to find his door open.

Instincts were slower with the steady throbhaze of redblack pain as a background, but some things were fucking impossible to miss, and whoever had gone through that door last really hadn't been trying to be subtle.

Not just not locked, not just his security out of place. Standing open, clear view through to the sparse room and the very familiar outline of a very familiar man stooped over his kitchen counter, flipping through papers.

Eliot got inside, nudged the door shut with his hip, and leaned heavily against it, best imitation of a glare he could manage from his closing eyes aimed in the interloper's direction. "Took your fucking time."

Nathan Ford straightened up slowly and turned towards him, light from the window catching a stray curl of hair behind his right ear and throwing his face into shadow. "So did you." He nodded. "Take him."

Jesus, he'd never fucking learn. Trust always led to betrayal. Eliot never even saw the man who knocked him out.

Then again, he wasn't offering much of a challenge, not even quick enough to throw a single punch or get to the knife still sheathed up his tattered shirtsleeve before the distant cold pinprick of a needle slid into his neck, and blackness welled up to swallow him whole.

***

It's been said there's a mental checklist most people do when they're waking up. Whatever most people did, Eliot had his own checklist. _Who am I?_ wasn't on the list – only one option there. _What happened last night?_ was equally irrelevant, though for different reasons. The past was past and if it was going to rear up and bite his ass, he'd already know about it. _Where am I?_ was pretty much an optional extra, and very specific to his immediate location and the surroundings, if he was chained to anything, and if there was anything he could use as a weapon in reach.

This time, he just got the mental checklist of physical condition, because the optional question returned him the information that he wasn't chained to anything directly, but there were heavy leather cuffs strapped tight around his wrists, separately, creaking as he pulled against them and strong enough to hold him, snug enough that dislocating his thumb wasn't going to be enough to get out. And those cuffs were fastened to something very securely. With metal, from the sound of it.

Couldn't see because he was fucking _blindfolded_.

Pain had faded some, and he felt clean, so someone... Jesus, someone had stripped him and tended him. Next bit of input was the cool breath of air over his skin. A hell of a lot more of his skin than he was comfortable with. Once he'd registered that, the faint hum of an A/C unit was audible. That, and the faint but unmistakable sound of someone breathing. Someone he _knew_.

Eliot let his body go limp. Not relaxing, just not fighting against the cuffs. His feet were free, meant his legs were free, and even if the dull ache from his ankle was enough warning that the damage there still needed to heal, that gave him something to work with. When he needed it.

"Concussion," Nate's voice said, soft and clipped, dispassionate. "Flesh wound to the scalp. Three broken ribs, four more cracked. Extensive bruising to the entire body. Right shoulder's been dislocated and reset. Another chipped tooth, split lip. Right ankle sprained, and you've torn the cartilage there, as well. Both sides. You want to tell me now what the _hell_ you thought you were doing?"

What he was doing? What _he_ was _doing_? No fucking answer to that, even if he'd trusted his voice. Jesus, couldn't speak, throat too dry even if he'd wanted to. What he could manage was a chuckle, rusty from dryness, rough and bitter and entirely unable to escape the humor in the situation. Didn't matter that it made his ribs ache like fuck, and breathing wasn't going to be a lot of fun for a few weeks, but shit, no chance he wasn't going to laugh at that.

At least until the cold water hit him in the face. Shock enough to stop him laughing, sharp intake of breath that made him freeze still against the stab of pain from his ribs protesting the movement of his lungs. He swallowed, licked moisture from his lips, and forced his body back to relaxation. "Fuck you."

There was a dry laugh, and something pressed against his lips. Not flesh, nothing he could bite. Something small, solid, cylindrical. A straw. The thought of drugs crossed his mind briefly and was discarded; if Nate wanted him drugged, he already would be, and there was nothing to stop anyone sticking him with a needle again. Besides, he needed that drink.

Nothing but fresh, clear, cool water, more than welcome. He sucked carefully, letting each mouthful sit in his mouth to soak into dry tissue before swallowing, and stopped before his body wanted to. His mind was too damn clear on the memory of how it felt to throw up with broken ribs, and wasn't keen on repeating the experience. Definitely not while he was strapped down and might fucking drown on it. "You wanna try telling me why you've got me strapped down?"

Blindfold could wait, but he wanted to know about the cuffs. Hell, with his hands free, he could get rid of the damn blindfold himself.

"Thank you for the drink, Nathan." Nate's voice sounded closer than he'd expected, deceptively mild, that soft tone to it that... Shit, Eliot's body remembered just as clearly as his mind did. Mocking edge, low and not quite a threat, going straight to his dick and yeah, that was in full working order. "I see your manners haven't improved."

Since the only answer Eliot had to that was another 'fuck you', he swallowed it back, turning his head away from the voice."Yeah. Right. Thanks. Now what's with the cuffs?"

"Sir," Nate corrected quietly. "If you want me to answer your questions, Eliot, you'll need to be more polite."

If Eliot's eyes had been visible, they'd probably have betrayed him by widening, pupils darkening. Lost in the blackness behind the blindfold, he was hidden, though he couldn't be a hundred percent certain his mouth didn't give him away. "So you chased me across the world to play your kinky games? Yeah, I don't think so."

"Whose games?" A tinge of amusement warmed Nate's tone. "Don't flatter yourself. I've been in London six months and you've come to _me_."

"I _didn't know_ ," Eliot growled. Sure, maybe he'd liked those games. Maybe he'd started a few of them. They were still Nate's games, though, still Nate calling the shots, and maybe he'd liked that, too.

Fingers pushed into his hair, and there was sudden coolness on his skin, only aware that sweat had formed under the blindfold when it had gone. He kept his eyes closed, red instead of black through his eyelids, eyes suddenly itching and gritty. "How long've I been out?"

"Twenty seven hours, thirteen minutes, before you woke up." And that was when Eliot was really fucking glad his eyes were still closed, because he couldn't see Nate's face, still focused more on Nate's tone, on the tightness he might not have heard if he'd been distracted by expression. "And Hardison let me know where you were every minute of those six months."

Aw, _shit_. Eliot's fingers curled to fists, impotent pull against the cuffs and resulting sharp, deep ache in his shoulder as instinct told him to reach out. Told him to sit up, touch Nate. Shoulder, arm, hand, wherever, just goddamn touch him and take that tension away. Six fucking months and he couldn't stop that impulse. "Let me out of the cuffs, Nate. Please."

"Look at me first." Calm, quiet, thread of uncertainty almost hidden under smoothness.

Slow, and careful. Eliot blinked, vision blurry, and blinked again. And again, dryness rapidly disappearing as his eyes began watering enthusiastically to make up for it. "Nate..."

"Twenty three stitches," Nate's voice said quietly, the movement of his lips nothing more than a blur, his figure a dark outline against vaguely bright background. "Twenty three stitches, broken ribs, and you unconscious, in an unknown place. That's why the cuffs."

Oh.

Right.

Yeah.

That.

Eliot blinked a couple more times, bringing Nate into clearer view, and met his eyes, steady as he could manage considering he was still fucking _cuffed to a bed_. "Let me out?" he asked, voice soft and rough.

There was an everlasting moment of stillness, Nate not moving, Eliot not moving, heartbeat loud and heavy in his chest, blood pumping loud in his head, breath loud and harsh to his own ears. Not pushing, not moving, not asking more.

Then Nate moved, hands dropping to the side of the bed to unbuckle the cuffs, one by one. "You're still not going anywhere. Not this time."

"Yeah." Careful movements, not shifting his ribs, or his spine, which took the opportunity to remind him of its unhappy presence, and Eliot flexed his fingers, wrists feeling somehow more naked in their sudden freedom than the rest of him. "Not this time."

This time, he didn't have any place to run _to_ , and he sure as hell didn't plan on any more running _from_.


End file.
